Two of a Kind (Desire Island 2)

“I’d seen his headshot in a thumbnail on his chat account, but we’d never Skyped or anything, or even talked on the phone. But along with his email that he was coming to town, he sent several pictures of himself. I don’t generally care that much about looks, but this guy was just drop-dead, model gorgeous. I mean, like the cover of GQ magazine, or one of those huge underwear ads on the side of a building.”

“And they say guys are the ones who are more focused on the physical,” Dylan teased.

“Yeah, right? Don’t you believe it. Women can be just as superficial as guys.” She managed a grin, which fell away as she forced herself to continue. “So, I decided to throw caution to the wind, and I said, sure, I’ll meet you for a drink.” She shrugged. “I figured, what the hell. It’s just a drink. I’ll meet him in a public place. We’ll see if our chemistry extends past the chat room, and go from there.”

“And I’m guessing it did?”

“Yeah. He was as good looking in person as in his pictures, though he was better at online chat than casual, face-to-face conversation. He laid it on kind of thick—the compliments and the sexy innuendo all evening were a bit much. And it was clear that he thought a whole lot of himself. As long-term partner material, I wouldn’t have given him the time of day.”

She sat up a little straighter in the bed, determined to continue. “I’d taken an Uber to the bar because I knew I was going to have a few drinks. When he suggested he give me a ride home, the red flags should have been waving in my brain. I have a hard and fast rule that I never let a guy take me home from a first date. A single woman, living alone—you can’t be too careful.”

“A wise policy,” Dylan agreed. “But, I’m guessing in this case you made an exception.”

“Yep,” Kendra agreed morosely. “I let gin and horniness override caution and common sense. I lived at the time in a small cottage on the back of someone’s property. It was pretty secluded back there, which was even more of a reason not to let a stranger take me home. But he wasn’t a stranger, I told the part of my brain that was still functioning with proper caution. We’d been chatting online for over a month. And we had just spent a nice hour at the bar, and he’d insisted on picking up the check, another plus in my book. So, I said, ‘Okay. Sure. You can take me to my door.’”

She paused, staring back out at the water as she tried to find the courage to continue. To her surprise, this wasn’t quite as terrible as she’d expected it to be. Maybe because of the kind expression on Dylan’s face, and the way he listened to her with his full attention. He wasn’t judging her. At least, not yet.

But then, she hadn’t told him the worst part.

“So,” she said again, determined to plow through it. “He took me home, and he walked me to my door like a real gentleman. And then he kissed me. Not just a friendly brush of the lips, but one of those romance novel, all-out mouth melds with music swelling in the background and all that shit. When he let me go, I was kind of flustered, and yeah, I’ll admit it—aroused.

“So, when he asked in a very polite, nonthreatening way if he might come in for a quick nightcap because he didn’t want to say goodbye yet, I agreed.” She shook her head, still furious with herself for her egregious lapse of judgment—and the resulting price she’d paid.

“I let him into my house,” she admitted, heat scorching her face. “Like a fucking idiot, I let a virtual stranger I’d picked up online into my private space. No one else knew he was there. No one else even knew he was in town.”

“Kendra,” Dylan said gently, reaching for her hand. “That’s not a crime. It’s perfectly understandable that you let a guy you’d been talking to for quite a while online take you home after a nice evening. And it’s understandable, too, that you would invite him in if you liked him. This isn’t the nineteen-fifties. You aren’t expected to ‘keep yourself pure’ and all that horseshit they used to dump all over women to keep them in line. From where I’m sitting, you did nothing wrong.”

“Do you really believe that?” Kendra asked, desperately wanting it to be true. “Because I knew better, Dylan. Something in my gut told me the guy was bad news, and I ignored it because he was so good-looking and well-spoken.”

“He sounds like a total sociopath,” Dylan said evenly, tempering his internal rage with compassion for Kendra. “I’m guessing that fucking asshole betrayed your trust and”—he ran his finger down the ridged scar between her breasts, his voice dropping to a whisper—“hurt you.”